Good Enough
by WalkingWit
Summary: He's watched her over the years, not in a creepy way, mind you. He's determined that he's not good enough for her. No one is.


**Good Enough**

He had watched her over the years-not in a creepy, stalker like way, mind you, but observed her. She bit her lip when under stress and curled a strand of hair around her finger when nervous. He could tell her genuine smile, the one that reached her eyes, from the fake "sure, that's great," smile she used so often. He saw how she broke down when Carly, her best friend, went across the country for college. That's when she and Spencer turned to each other for support. With the help of Skype, the problem was resolved and almost never talked about ever again. At least, until Carly decided to stay in New York for grad school, too. Freddie followed her across the country and the two set up house in the city, planning their wedding for next spring, after Carly's graduation.

Spencer was pleased about this, until Sam told him to pay up. The two had placed bets on when the two would get together, and Sam won, raking in some dough. Spencer had looked sheepishly on as she counted her winnings, chiding him for not knowing his sister well enough.

Sometimes Spencer cursed her for being so perceptive and vice versa. The two of them were both observant and noticed the smallest things that no one else did.

He watched her flit from guy to guy. None of her 'relationships' lasted more that a month. They always made a move too quickly and she'd get pissed off and kick them where it hurt the most.

He liked it when she came to him, complaining about the idiots she fell for. She had once asked why more guys couldn't be like him. Needless to say, it had lifted his spirits for quite a while. It was in that time period that they spent most of their time together, constant companions. She had even stopped her complaining since she hadn't been out on a single date in months. No one was good enough for her, not him, not anybody.

It was creepy of him to like her. He was a good eleven years older than her, if not twelve. It'd be weird and awkward and downright wrong. Then again, wasn't Mr. Knightley sixteen or so years older than Emma? They worked out just fine, right?

'That was the 1800s, you dolt,' Spencer had to tell himself. He promised himself that he'd treat Sam as a friend, and nothing more. It's not like he dreamed about her at night or anything. Nope, their relationship was to remain completely platonic. Someone else would come along, he was sure. It was a coincidence most of his dates were blonde, and the fact that he hadn't dated anyone seriously in a few years. All coincidental.

Then it happened. One summer night he found her sitting outside his apartment door with red eyes and dried tears on her face. She gave a meek smile and stood up hastily. She sniffled slightly.

"He-he tried t-t-t-to," Sam shivered, closing her eyes.

"Oh my God," Spencer wrapped his arms around her slight frame, trying to calm her.

He opened the door and led her in. Sam sat on the couch, apologizing profusely for imposing.

"You're not imposing. I want to rip that guy's head off," Spencer growled in a tone no one had heard him adopt before.

"It's okay, I gave him a black eye," Sam tried to lighten the situation, though her eyes said otherwise.

Spencer sat down beside her, handing her a cup of tea to calm her nerves.

"What did he try to do, exactly?" he probed as gently as he could.

Sam took a deep breath, "Um, we were in the car. He was supposed to take me home. He stopped the car near the park. He, he put his hand on my knee."

Sam stopped, taking another breath. She couldn't look Spencer in the eye, she was too ashamed.

"He put his hand under my skirt. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. He tried to put his fingers _there_," she whispered.

Spencer narrowed his eyes in anger, "He what?"

"It's okay, though. I punched him before he could, and I got out of the car and ran here," Sam finished quickly, trying to quell Spencer's anger.

"He's an ass. I'll kill him," Spencer stood, ready to track the idiot down.

Sam took his hand, "He's not worth it."

"He could've raped you, Sam," the man said miserably. The mere thought made him want to rip someone's head off. His usually calm nature disappeared.

"I would've screamed bloody murder and pressed charges," she replied calmly.

"God, Sam. I worry about you so much," he closed his eyes and opened them, gazing at her intently.

"You're a good friend, Spencer, amazing," Sam said earnestly. She sipped her tea slowly.

"Yeah, friend," Spencer mumbled bitterly.

Sam set the mug on the coffee table and looked thoughtfully at Spencer.

"You know, I had the biggest crush on you for years," she smiled lightly.

"Really?" Spencer asked with a snort.

"Yeah. It kind of went away, then came back. Then I made it go away since you're my friend," she confessed, rambling.

Spencer stared at her, seeing her cheeks turn a most endearing shade of pink.

"I have to go," Sam said quickly, feeling as though she'd embarrassed herself.

She stood and kissed Spencer on the cheek quickly, muttered a "thanks" and ran off, leaving Spencer stare after her in a daze.

* * *

It'd been days since he heard from her. He called her roommate, but she said Sam was at work, or out, anywhere but there. When he called her cell, he got the voicemail.

He threw himself into his work, sculpting and painting. The absence of the blonde left a void in his day-to-day routine, and it was unnerving. He had realized just how much time he spent with Sam. They went to lunch or dinner every at least twice a week, he visited her at work, and she went with him to museums and art gallery openings. She would give her honest opinions on his sculptures, and often even help assemble them with him. She refused to take a cut of the money, saying it was nothing, that any friend would help out. Somehow, they had turned into Harry and Sally, minus the getting together at the end.

There was a light knock at the door, and the door opened to reveal Sam looking fidgety.

"Hey," Spencer greeted in surprise, putting the hammer he was going to use on a sculpture down on a side table.

"Hey. Look, I'm sorry I just loaded everything onto you. I'm sorry," Sam said.

"There's nothing to be sorry about," Spencer looked at her in confusion.

"I understand if you don't want to hang out anymore," she added, as if she hadn't heard him.

"What? Why?"

"The crush thing, it was stupid. I shouldn't have told you. I've made a fool of myself and I'll just get going now," she said, shoving her hands in the pockets of her zip up sweater.

"Sam, come here," Spencer said softly. He tried not to look at the expanse of leg her khaki shorts revealed. He swallowed deeply and focused on her face.

Sam walked up to him slowly, confused.

"That crush you had on me, is it gone? Tell me the truth," his brown eyes met her blue ones.

"No," she whispered, looking down, "More than a crush, actually."

"Good," he said, placing his hands on her hips, "I've liked you for years now."

"Really?" Sam smirked teasingly.

"Six to be exact," he confided.

"That means you've liked me since I was eighteen," Sam smiled.

"A little bit before then, but..." Spencer said softly.

"I wouldn't have minded, but the law might've," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I'm not good enough for you Sam. I'm old and decrepit, I'll be forty soon..."

"By soon you mean five years?" she snorted in amusement, "I don't care, Spence. You could be twenty years older and I wouldn't care. You're you, that's all I care about."

She stood on her toes and kissed Spencer softly on the lips. Spencer leaned down, as he was a great deal taller, and deepened the kiss.

The two parted for air and Sam smiled, a smile that reached her eyes.

"So, want to go to dinner tonight?" Spencer asked, brushing a lock of Sam's long hair out of her face.

Sam nodded and leaned up to kiss him once again. She unzipped her sweater and shrugged it off, leaving her in a tight tank top which left little to the imagination. He ran his hands down to her bum, squeezing it lightly before slipping them under her tank top, stroking her warm skin. Sam gave a murmur of satisfaction. He trailed kisses down her neck and collar bone. Sam tilted her head back, ready to pull her shirt off.

"Oh, Sam. We can't do this now," Spencer stared at her. He wanted nothing more than to take her at that very moment in his bedroom, but he knew he had to resist for fear of hurting her some way.

"Why not?" Sam asked, staring up at him in confusion.

"I don't know, but you're so young..."

"I'm nearly twenty five, I'm an adult, Spence," Sam argued, annoyed, "I thought we just went through this."

"I know," he said softly, "but maybe we should take it slow."

Sam nodded in agreement, plopping down on the couch. Spencer sat down next to her.

"I'm hungry," Sam commented after a few moments. She stood up and walked into the kitchen, rummaging through. She pulled out some ham and made herself a sandwich while Spencer went back to work on his sculpture.

"Is that supposed to be crooked?" she asked, gesturing to a robotic arm.

"It's not crooked," Spencer replied indignantly. He looked at his creation then tilted his head.

"Yes, it is," Sam insisted. She walked over to where Spencer was standing and pointed, "see?"

"Not crooked," he bit back.

"Fine, whatever," Sam strolled around it nonchalantly, "There's a screw loose here."

Spencer walked over to her, "It's suppose to be like that."

"Sure it is," Sam raised an eyebrow. She went back to the couch and shrugged on her hoodie, zipping it up.

"You're leaving?" Spencer asked with a frown.

"I'll be back around seven for dinner," she smirked. She pecked him on the lips and whispered in his ear, "You are good enough. You're perfect."

She left, leaving Spencer looking after her with a dopey smile plastered on his face.

Spencer looked back at his sculpture with a broad grin. His face sobered before he smirked. Damn it, the arm was crooked.

* * *

**The end, please review.**


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